


The Taking

by estrella30



Category: Smallville RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrella30/pseuds/estrella30





	The Taking

**Title** \- The Taking  
 **Pairing** \- TW/MR  
 **Rating** \- NC17  
 **Size** \- 10K

Thanks to [](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**brooklinegirl**](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com/) for the awesome beta! This is for [](http://kho.livejournal.com/profile)[**kho**](http://kho.livejournal.com/) because she loves me and makes me icons and was sad that poor Tommy and Mikey were being neglected with all the jsquared lovin. Dude, who could ever neglect the Wellingbaum?

*giggles*

 

 

_**The Taking** _

 

 

Tom wonders why it took him and Michael so long to get here. Then he blinks and it feels like it took no time at all.

Michael's mouth is slick and wide, always moving, never still. He kisses like he talks - hard and fast and flashy. His teeth are sharp. They bite Tom's lip and scrape across his throat, a puff of breath as Michael laughs against Tom's skin.

"What do you want?" Michael asks. His voice is low and his hands are stroking down Tom's chest, over his belt. Tom looks at him. Michael's skin is flushed and for once in his life he looks like he's not joking at all.

Tom wants it all. He wants to feel Michael over him, inside him. He wants Michael's teeth on his skin and his mouth wet and hot, dragging down Tom's spine.

He gives Michael a shove, then follows as he stumbles backward toward the bed. The floor creaks under Tom's shoes and moonlight peeks through the slats of the blinds. The mattress hits the back of Michael's knees and he grins. If he makes a joke right now, Tom's going to choke him.

"I guess that's my answer," Michael says instead.

Tom pushes and Michael falls and Tom follows him onto the bed. They move together like they've been doing it for years, and Tom thinks, maybe they have.

Michael tastes like salt and air. Tom kisses him hard, until their teeth bang and he tastes blood in his mouth from a split in Michael's lip. He pulls back to check, and it's not from the scar but Tom licks that anyway, just because he's always wanted to.

"God," Tom chokes out. Michael pushes Tom's shirt off his shoulders, slides his belt through the buckle. The leather slaps and Tom gasps as Michael's hand pops the button of his jeans and slides his fingers into Tom's boxers.

Tom closes his eyes. He leans back as Michael strokes him. His skin is hot and his heart is pounding and every time he blinks he sees Michael's face.

*

When they first met, Tom would spend hours watching Michael. He wanted to know everything: the way Michael moved and talked and smiled. After a while Tom found himself bouncing on his heels and wiggling his eyebrows after he told a joke the same way Michael did.

During breaks on the set Michael would go outside for a cigarette. He'd smoke it only halfway down, then toss it onto the ground and step on it with the toe of one of Lex's shiny, black shoes. On the way back inside he'd talk to Tom about something inconsequential. The Patriots game, whatever new song was on the radio that morning. When Tom leaned in to listen, he could still smell the smoke on Michael's fingers and skin.

*

The room is dark and the sheets feel cool under Tom's back. Everything is new here - the apartment, the furniture. He didn't care about not getting the house after the divorce, and he doesn't care now. All it means is that the only skin to ever touch this cotton is his and Michael's.

He turns on his side, runs his hand down until it rests on Michael's hip. The show isn't filming, so when Tom kisses Michael's jaw, stubble brushes his lips. He thinks of all the times he's wanted to do this. Have Michael in his bed, under his hands, and Tom can't decide what to touch first.

Michael is someone who never shuts up, except in times that actually mean something. When Eric left, when Sam got fired. Michael heard the news and just walked away, back to his trailer, and he didn't come out until it was time to film. He never said anything to Tom, not one way or the other. Tom knows now though, that the not saying means something more.

Michael gasps Tom's name and slides onto his back. Tom leans over him. He wants to make Michael stop talking, stop saying anything at all. Tom wants this to mean something too.

Michael's skin is pale and smooth in the dark of the room and Tom fits his hand around the curve of Michael's hip. He yanks him up, slides a leg between Michael's thighs and lays half across him, licking the sweat off the side of Michael's throat.

"Jesus, fuck, yeah," Michael babbles. He's grabbing at Tom's back, his hair, his waist. Tom pushes down; holds Michael's hips against the bed and moves to kiss his mouth, Michael still talking against his lips.

"Shut up," Tom tells him.

Michael flinches and blinks. "What?"

"Shut, the fuck, _up._ " Tom smiles. "No talking right now, okay?"

Michael smirks up at him. Tom shivers when Michael's fingers curl around his dick. "Well, then fuck me, Tommy," he says.

*

There was one time, back in the third season or so, that Tom thought something might happen.

They were out too late one night, just the two of them. Tom drank too much wine and Michael teased him all night for being a girl and getting bombed on white wine and peach schnapps. Michael was sober, though, which was a surprise. Usually he partied way harder than Tom.

"What's up with you?" Tom asked in Michael's van on the way home. The streetlights were all blurring together and Tom blinked slowly, trying to bring the world back into focus. It wasn't working too well. "Wow. Those lights out there are pretty," Tom said thoughtfully.

Michael laughed and made a wide right down Tom's street. "Just wait till the morning, Superboy. Tonight might be fun, but tomorrow?"

"Thanks," Tom moaned. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

The van stopped and Tom leaned his head back onto the seat. "Wrong way, Tommy," he heard Michael say. "You're supposed to be heading _out._ "

"Right, right." He stayed where he was. It was quiet outside, only the sound of a few cars passing in the distance. Tom breathed in and held it, then exhaled slowly.

"You need me to carry you?" Michael asked. Tom's head throbbed where Michael had just poked him with a finger. He was gonna be _toast_ tomorrow.

"Nah. I'm good." Tom turned his head to the side. Michael was leaning forward just a little bit. There was a lamppost on Tom's side of the car and it was shining through the windshield, throwing one side of Michael's face into shadow.

Michael licked his lips. Tom swallowed. He leaned forward an inch or so and Michael didn't move back.

"Tommy."

Tom blinked as Michael shifted away. His hands were gripped tight around the steering wheel and he was staring straight ahead at the street. "You should probably go," he said flatly.

There wasn't a thing in the world Tom wanted to disagree with more. He opened his mouth to do just that, but instead wound up running a hand over his face and through his hair. "Yeah. Maybe you're right," he finally said as he got out of the van. "See you tomorrow."

The air was cool and Tom shivered in his jacket as he went up his walk. Maybe Michael was right, he thought to himself, but Tom didn't think so.

*

Michael's skin is hot under Tom's hands. He thinks about all the things he's known in his life, all the people, and Tom thinks that this right here might be the most amazing thing he's ever accomplished.

Having Michael here, with him, gasping out his name. Tom surrounded by the slick slide of Michael's body, the taste of his sweat on Tom's lips.

Tom knows it's never been like this; can't even imagine how it could have been. He has no idea how he lasted without it, and he leans over Michael's back and kisses the side of his jaw, the shell of his ear. "So fucking good," he says, his voice sounding slow and thick. Michael's stubble tickles Tom's mouth and he licks his lips. "Jesus, Mike. I just-"

Michael laughs sharply. "And you tell _me_ to shut up?"

Tom swivels his hips and reaches around to take Michael in his hand. He laughs quietly against Michael's ear; Tom could get addicted to this, he thinks. Having this every night, wanting this every minute of the day.

He strokes Michael with long, slow strokes. Michael bucks against him, and Tom knows it's not going to take long. All the times he's wanted to do this, all the things he's thought about.

For years they went just a step too far with everything. Out too late at night, up too early in the morning. All the times they watched each other just a little too carefully on the set and off. The way his left shoulder would almost always brush against Michael's right in any interview they ever did. The space for one that they used for two.

They were in the clear now though. A few years later, a little older. The network had all their ducks in a row, and Tom and Michael were only going to be taking up space there for a little bit longer. Tom used to think that would make him sad, make him wish back for when they were the new kids in town and everything was shiny and bright for them alone.

But to have that, he couldn't have this. Michael was the one who was always right about this thing between them - it being better to wait for it - even if Tom never admitted it.

Michael pushes up now, his back pressing to Tom's chest. Tom strokes him harder and faster. He listens to Michael's breath hitch and break as he shakes and comes with Tom's arm wrapped tight around his waist and his mouth against Michael's ear.

"Yeah," Tom pants. "God."

Tom pushes Michael down and holds his shoulder against the bed. The headboard bangs against the wall and all Tom can hear are Michael's gasps and moans and the way his own breath is rattling in his chest.

It's too much, it's everything at once, and Tom is glad it took so long because it's _his_ now, and he knows that. His fingers leave marks on Michael's pale skin, and his lip is sore where he's been biting it. Tom closes his eyes and twists the sheet in his other hand. He hears the cotton tear. Michael laughs sharply and Tom shudders and groans as his orgasm rips through him.

When his heart feels like its back to normal, Tom falls to the bed buries his face in the pillow.

"Superboy, indeed," Michael says as he plucks the torn sheet with his fingers. Tom can hear the smile in Michael's voice.

Tom rolls to his back and closes his eyes. He thinks of long nights and lazy mornings just like this. Him and Michael in bed, nothing to do and no place to be. No one to tell them they shouldn't be too close or talk too much or party too long and hard. He reaches over and shoves Michael, who winds up lying on his back staring at the ceiling like Tom.

"I got a good job," Tom tells him. "I can buy new sheets."

Michael snorts. "You do that."

Tom closes his eyes. "You gonna be in them if I do?"

"If I don't get any better offers." Tom can feel Michael shrug his shoulder. He waits for a minute then hears Michael say, "Yeah. I'll be here," in a low voice Tom barely recognizes.

Tom grins up at the ceiling.

It takes Michael a while to fall asleep. He tosses and turns and nearly pokes one of Tom's eyes out at one point. Michael snores and his feet get cold and Tom has to rip the blanket back in the middle of the night to get any of it at all. Tom's convinced he's never had a worse night sleep in his life.

He wakes up smiling.

 

-end-


End file.
